


sugar, spice, and everything nice

by N_Is_For_Knowledge



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events (TV), A Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket, All the Wrong Questions - Lemony Snicket
Genre: Accidental Kissing, Crushes, F/M, Gen, Just two babies being adorable, Pining, Pre-ATWQ, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Sugar Bowl Generation, my opinions of poetry that I got off google
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-27 09:49:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20043988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/N_Is_For_Knowledge/pseuds/N_Is_For_Knowledge
Summary: “Some say that all girls are made of sugar and spice and everything nice, and that all boys are made of rats and snails and puppy dog’s tails. This is obviously not true, because all people have the same basic blueprint, if you will, I am, although primarily of the male persuasion, not made of rats or snails, and Beatrice, a girl, is not literally made of sugar or spice, although she is quite nice.”Or, a sort-of kiss, an almost-date, and two kids learning about each other.





	sugar, spice, and everything nice

Some say that all girls are made of sugar and spice and everything nice, and that all boys are made of rats and snails and puppy dog’s tails. This is obviously not true, because all people have the same basic blueprint, if you will, I am, although primarily of the male persuasion, not made of rats or snails, and Beatrice, a girl, is not literally made of sugar or spice, although she is quite nice.

I told this to Beatrice as we munched on our pretzels, omitting the part about Beatrice being quite nice for obvious reasons. She had taken me to an outdoor shopping mall, under the pretense of getting a few novels from the expansive bookstore there, and we were currently walking out of the food court, drinks, bags of chips, and cinnamon pretzels in hand.

I had read multiple romance novels, being less disgusted by the idea of romance than I had imagined a normal twelve year old would be, and I had become something of a hopeless romantic, as Kit as termed me when I told her about my newfound crush on Beatrice. I was silently thinking of this as a date of sorts, which was rather stupid, because we had gone on a large number of excursions like these before, and they were never dates.

Beatrice’s voice shook me out of my thoughts. “Lem, why don’t we play truth or dare?”

“What sort of dares would we do?”

“Normally I would say anything, but we are in a crowded public place, so nothing too crazy.”

“Maybe we can keep track of the dares now, so we can do them later. I brought my commonplace book.”

“You always bring your commonplace book. I’m half convinced it’s glued to you or something.”

“If it was glued to me, how would I take it off to write in it?”

“Touché. That’s a good idea, though.”

I  _ most certainly _ did not blush at that comment. 

“I’ll start. Truth or dare, Mr. Snicket.”

At that point in time, we both found it hilarious when she called me Mr. Snicket, as usually pretending to be much older than we were was rather funny; at least, until it wasn’t anymore. “Dare, dear Ms. Baudelaire.”

“Hey, that rhymes!” she said, before suddenly becoming mock-serious. “I dare you… to kiss Jacques.”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

“Okay, fine… ” I made a note in my commonplace book, and stopped to take a few bites of my pretzel. “Truth or dare, Bea?”

“Hmmm… Dare. You’re hardly creative with coming up with ways to embarrass someone.”

“All of your dares are just daring me to kiss random volunteers. Next, you’ll dare me to kiss Olaf.”

“Ew, why would I do that? I’m not that cruel. Okay, maybe now I’m doubting your lack of evil genius. Truth.”

“What’s your least favorite poem?”

“Aw, that’s  _ tame _ . Well… it’s probably that McGonagall one, The Nithsdale Widow and Her Son. It’s so stupid! Like, he literally rhymes cruelty and merrily.”

“Good to know. Then again, McGonagall poems tend to be horrible as a rule.”

“Well, he is known as the worst poet in the world.”

_ Least favorite poem: The Nithsdale Widow and her son, William McGonagall. _

“Hey, Lem! Lemmy! Lem-Lem! Lemon meringue! Truth or dare?”

“Did you have to call me Lem-Lem?”

“Well, you were too busy having a love affair with your commonplace book.”

“I was literally just writing down your least favorite poem. And I mean that in the literal sense. Also, truth.”

“What was the weirdest moment in your life so far?”

That was a rather unexpected question, but then again, this was truth or dare. “Probably when you took me to the movies and I got kicked out for ‘too much pencil scratching’.”

“Well, maybe you didn’t have to be keeping up a running commentary in your commonplace book.”

“It was really the only way to stay sane. That movie was dreadfully boring.”

“That it was.”

If you have ever eaten a cinnamon pretzel, then you will know that over the course of eating the cinnamon pretzel, you will get cinnamon everywhere, much like glitter, if one is the crafty sort. I did not know it yet, but somehow, in the course of eating the pretzel, I had gotten some cinnamon on my nose.

“Hey, Lem?”

“What?”

“You’ve got some cinnamon. Right there.” She darted out and, in one fluid, graceful movement, kissed my nose. Or perhaps it was just licking. Either way, it was difficult to hide the flush of red that overtook my face, not unlike a bottle of cranberry juice spilled on a white tablecloth.

“Erm… thanks? What… what was that for?”

“I’m not wasting perfectly good cinnamon, Lem.”

“Ah… right. After all, cinnamon is extremely pricey.”

“That it is.”

We shared an easy moment of silence between each other, until Beatrice spoke again.

“You know, Lem, I’m really glad you’re my friend.”

“Really? Why?”

“I mean, you’re really smart, and funny, but in a quiet way, and we’re really different but we click, you know? And you’re always patient with me where anyone else would say that I’m being annoying or insufferable and… I’m just really glad we met.”

“Even though it was incredibly awkward?”

“Even though it was incredibly awkward.” 

“That reminds me. Truth or dare?”

“Dare.”

“I… I dare you to, at three in the morning, recite the entirety of The Nithsdale Widow and Her Son from memory while doing a handstand, in front of the girls dormitories.”

“Well, Lemony, I was wrong about you. You are rather creative when it comes to embarrassing people.”

“I keep it well hidden.”

We spent the day laughing and joking, buying ice cream and books and a new commonplace book for Beatrice. A year later, I would do something I didn’t regret until the next day, at the edge of a town I didn’t like until I had left it. The next time we saw each other, I would sit in silence, scared to speak to the person I had adored so much. I still did, and I still do. But after all, everything must come to an end, and most ends are messy, and ambiguous, and bittersweet. We would have a few more years together after that, and then would come the treacherous villain and the fake death and the real death and the running for years and years, and I never saw her again.

But until then, it was best to grab what wonderful moments were lying around, and with Beatrice, every moment was a wonderful one.

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t know anything about poetry, so I just googled ‘worst poets’ and William McGonagall came up.


End file.
